Writings on Parade - Part 2

Not sure how the first part was received, dare I post the second?  I think many people are the harshest critics of themselves and I tend to be the worst critic of myself anyway.  At any rate, I still like the exercise of trying to write something new to challenge myself.  This is the first time I've really written something in this vein, so I chalk this up in the "win" column.

Drawn and Quartered - continued

The kitchen's carmine red double doors fluttered with the memory of a head chef tornado. Diners could be heard gushing over the presentation. However, for every obvious satisfied customer, one could see the falling stars of confusion surrounding each half-made and unhappy dish. Green spinach jungles of salads had been slashed and burned, the skyscrapers of pommes frites were condemned and unfit for habitation, and the rolling hills of filet mignon were polluted with the gasoline fires of a disheartening sauté. 

Along a burnt toast pinewood length of bar riddled with patrons, one woman had obviously set herself apart.  Grease-proof clogs, tightly wrapped auburn hair, and the calloused hands of a seasoned chef; Joseph knew this was his customer. She had the look of an eating woman, cheeks rounded and dimpled, a seat that cut a wide berth between many a doorway, and a dominant stance straddling the barstool, adding more height to her vaulted stature. 

Joseph took a deep breath; he knew it would take more than just words to eject her from his kitchen.  His legs moved forward, but his knees were chicken soup in a bathtub.  The dull rose gaze of her pupils drew blinds twice and she looked in his direction, stood up, and extended her hand. 

"Joseph Abrams? Helen Louis.  I'm afraid you're in need of my services." 

"Seriously?  I had imagined that you'd be needing mine?" Joseph said.  "Have you seen our patio?  It'd be lovely if you stepped outside." 

"Seriously.  You're short one sous chef and I've heard St. Stephen can barely get through an entire night without his little Glenlivet friend."  Each corner of her confident smile peaked, left and then right.  "I've three years cooking for Rolf Phoenix in New York, five years running my own canteen in Midtown West, and one year educating the scrubs at the Downtown Crash Corner.  The Culinary Institute of America was lucky that I left one year early after learning everything I needed to know from their 'chefs.'  I've only returned to your city after six months of studying the Spanish cuisine in Diabloro.  Your foie gras is pasty, your razor clams are more pathetic than a rheumatoid basset hound, and I've seen happier stomachs at the International House of Pancakes, frankly." 

"You think that impresses me?  Did your research tell you you're useless to me?  Did it mention that there's no use for any ego but mine under this roof and in that kitchen?" 

"That kind of attitude is why your kitchen is populated with ham-fisted hash slingers and fry-cooks, Joe." 

"Mr. Abrams, please." 

"Joe."  Helen's eyes narrowed into mail-slots.  "I will take this kitchen from you.  If I have to tear it from your meathooks, it will be mine before the evening's over." 

"Right.  I'm just going to let you take this kitchen.  All this that's been built for the last 13 years and I'm going to hand you the keys to the fridge?"  You show me, then.  You show me you can handle me, and maybe I'll let you take out my garbage.  Maybe I'll let you mop my floors and scrub my grease-traps." 

"Absolutely.  You don't even know what you've done.  Do you, Joe?" 

"I've sent your knives and that double-wide caboose of yours home already."  Joseph's knuckles whitened as he strangled the bar's edge within an inch of its non-life. 

She drew herself to full height, a few inches taller than Joseph minus the toque, persimmon lips revealing square white pearls of malice.  The restaurant air turned vacuous and Joseph couldn't tell if he had left the kitchen on empty, but there was a lead brick suffocating his diaphragm.